Chapter 38
Aiden
Mia says the last two dates are hers to plan, and I’m absolutely thrilled about it.
The dates were a way to help us rediscover each other, to pick up threads I worried we’d dropped for good because of my mistakes.
If she wants to steer now, that means I’ve done something right.
She drives us north, the mountains rising in the distance, their peaks powdered with early snow.
“So, this is date seven and eight rolled into one?” I ask as we turn off onto a gravel road, winding through dense forest until the trees open to reveal a small cedar cabin tucked into a hollow.
It’s early evening, and the sun is setting, painting the sky awash in hues of orange and purple.
The scent of pine and cold air wraps around us the moment we step out of the car.
“Yep.” She turns off the car and grins. “Come on, ex-husband, let me show you where we’re staying for the weekend.”
The cabin is simple—one big room anchored by a wide, stone gas fireplace. There’s a worn leather couch, and shelves lined with mismatched mugs, some chipped, some with faded slogans.
A little kitchen is tucked into one corner, its counters scarred from years of use.
Through the back door, a porch overlooks a forest floor littered with copper and gold leaves that crunch underfoot.
The wind threads through the trees, carrying the damp, earthy scent of late autumn, and somewhere above, a raven calls out, its cry deep and lonely.
“This is…gorgeous.” I pull her into my arms and kiss her softly. “Thank you.”
She beams. “Well, why don’t you bring in the suitcases and unpack. I’ll start cooking dinner.”
I rush to get the suitcases and unpack so I can be with her.
I sit at the kitchen counter, elbows propped, chin resting on my fists as I watch her.
Garlic hisses in a cast-iron pan, rosemary and butter blooming into a delicious smell..
The sweater she’s wearing keeps slipping off one shoulder, and every so often she brushes her hair away from her face with the back of her wrist.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking up as she chops mushrooms.
“I’m appreciating the view.”
She snorts, but I see the corner of her mouth curve up. “You could offer to help instead of drooling.”
“Tempting, but I’ve been told I’m a hazard with sharp objects and open flames.”
“That’s true.” She adds the mushrooms to the pan. “I still remember the pasta and chicken debacle.”
“That was years ago,” I protest. “The food was delicious…in spirit. And let’s not forget my truffle risotto.”
“That was epic,” she agrees.
I wiggle my eyebrows. “We did some other epic things that night.”
She laughs, and something loosens in my chest.
It’s so domestic to be just us in a space that’s just for us. She’s not at our place, which she calls mine, or Katya’s place, which she calls hers. This is temporary, only for a weekend, but it’s the intimacy that I’ve been dreaming of having again.
We eat salmon steaks with mushrooms and pulao rice at the small dining table.
The cabin comes with two fireplaces, one in the open plan living-kitchen-dining space and one in the bedroom. We turned them both on. Mia likes it warm.
The flames dance shadows across her face, catching the flecks of gold in her gray eyes. I reach for the wine, a white Burgundy, and refill our glasses.
She sips. “This is nice, isn’t it?”
“It’s more than nice.” I keep my tone light because this is fucking amazing. Like we’re married again, like when we were newly in love and in tune with each other. I will never ever take this for granted, I vow. I will always, always work to keep our magic alive.
She nods, looking down at her plate. “So…these are the last dates, Aiden.”
I shake my head. “I’m going to date you for the rest of our lives. Even after we get married again, I will keep dating you.”
Her eyes fill with emotion. “Is that right?” She tries to make light of it.
I want to ask if she’s ready to come home, if this trip is the last step before we call it what it is—us getting back together.
But I promised I wouldn’t push, so I let the question burn quietly in the back of my mind.
Instead, I reach for her hand over the table and trace the line of her knuckles with my thumb.
“Baby, I’m going to date the fuck out of you.”
She laughs again, the sound bright and unburdened. There’s a lightness to her now, an almost incandescent glow that takes my breath away.
The weight of what I did—the shadow I placed on her shoulders—doesn’t seem to drag her down anymore.
Grief still lingers as there are moments when Anya’s absence cuts through her. But more and more, she and Katya share stories, remembering the warmth, the laughter, the good days. And with each memory spoken aloud, I can see them both stepping, slowly but surely, onto the path of healing.
“Speaking of fucking…I was wondering if we should go to bed early,” she says coyly.
“I thought we were having dessert. Didn’t I see you whip some cream?”
Her eyes light up with mischief. “Oh, that was going to be dessert…in bed.”
I go from semi-erect to full-on steel in seconds. “And will I be eating this dessert, or will you be?”
“I think we should both enjoy it.” She gets up and holds her hand out to me.
I slide my hand in hers and tug her to the fridge, where we collect the whipped cream, and then head to bed.
We make a freaking mess of the best kind.
I spread whipped cream across her tits, and my tongue follows the trails I painted with deliberate care, driving her crazy with arousal.
The bedroom fireplace makes her skin golden.
When I put a dollop on her pussy, she giggles and then moans, arching into my mouth as I lick it off her, blending the sweetness of the cream with her essence.
She comes suddenly, quivering and moaning. When her breathing resumes at a steady pace, I kiss her clit softly. “You’re so beautiful when you come, baby.”
“Your turn,” she whispers, reaching for the bowl.
I watch her drizzle cream across my collarbone, her tongue darting out to catch a cloud of it before it falls. Arousal shoots straight through me. I grip the sheets to keep from flipping her over and forgetting about dessert entirely.
By the time she applies whipped cream to my dick, I am ready to combust, which I do, embarrassingly, within minutes of her taking me in her mouth.
After, we lie catching our breaths, her head on my chest, my fingers combing through her hair. The fire is still burning with a quiet hiss, as gas fires do, and the cabin has settled into that deep quiet that only comes in the middle of nowhere.
“We need a shower.” She chuckles. “We’re sticky.”
“In more ways than one,” I agree. “And we need to change the sheets.”
“They promised me they’d have extras in the closet.”
“Vixen!” I slap her ass lightly. “You planned this.”
“Most certainly. I’m trying to cram two dates into one, after all.” She sits up, and she looks glorious, naked, sticky, mine.
“What else have you planned, sweet Mia?” I ask, feeling joy swirl through me in long, loose circles.
“Wait and see.”
The next afternoon, after lunch at a tiny roadside diner—a place with cracked leather booths and apple pie that tastes like someone’s grandmother still makes it—Mia grins like she’s got a secret.
She drives us down a narrow country road until we pull up to a weathered red stable tucked at the edge of the forest.
A grizzled old man in a wool cap greets us. “Name’s Carl,” he says, his voice all gravel and Vermont drawl.
He sizes us up like he’s been matching horses to people his whole life. “You look like a Daisy,” he tells Mia, handing her the reins of a sleek chestnut mare with a glossy coat and curious eyes. Then he turns to me, squinting. “And you…need Jasper.”
Jasper turns out to be a big gray gelding with a lazy blink and the faintest smirk—if horses can smirk.
“He’s a gentleman,” Carl assures me. “Mostly.”
Mia hides a smile. “Perfect match, then.”
When she sees the surprise on my face, she says, “You used to love riding.”
“Then Dad sold the horses, and…I just forgot how much I loved it.” I hug her, thanking her for doing this for us.
We ride out through the forest, the trail a patchwork of fallen leaves and dark earth. Leather creaks under me, the reins warm against my gloves. Hooves thud softly, sometimes splashing through shallow puddles from when it last rained.
The air is crisp enough that every breath turns to mist.
We go along a narrow path, the horses’ hooves muffled on the thick carpet of leaves, and stop at a vista point.
It’s almost the end of the season, and nature is giving us a brilliant show before the trees become bare and winter takes over. Trees blaze in every direction—amber, scarlet, deep wine-red—and shafts of low sunlight catch in the branches like stained glass.
Mia turns in the saddle, her cheeks flushed, and her hair tumbling out from under her hat.
“This is incredible.” It’s not just the view. It’s her, sitting straight in the saddle like she was born to ride.
“I chose Stowe for our last dates,” she tells me, her eyes twinkling with delight, “because I wanted to change what this place means to me…to us. Now it’s where we had monkey sex with whipped cream and went horseback riding, and not where…we had our worst Christmas ever.”
I’m touched by her thoughtfulness.
“What are you saying, baby?”
“I’m saying the past is now in the past. I don’t want to carry it anymore.”
The air is cold enough that our breath ghosts in front of us, but her words make me feel warmer than I have in a long time.
She hasn’t said she loves me, yet, or that she’s moving back in, or that she’s forgiven me—not in words—but she has in actions. There are no declarations. But I feel it in my chest, like she just reached in and set my heart right.
We keep riding, the forest opening now and then to reveal sweeping views of the valley—streaks of rust, gold, and evergreen against the soft gray sky. And I realize that I’m not looking back any longer.
By the time we return the horses, the afternoon light has gone thin and silver. The temperature drops fast in the mountains this time of year, and our breath puffs white as we walk back to the truck.
The drive back to the cabin is the good kind of quiet. Her hand rests in mine on the console, the forest blurring by in dusky shades of orange, green, and brown.
Back in the cabin, we turn on the fireplaces and change into our lounging clothes.
She prepares hot cider for us, which we drink on the sofa, in front of the fire, the heat licking our faces.
She tucks her legs under her, turning to face me. In the flicker of firelight, her eyes look molten, her skin kissed gold.
“I love you, Mia.”
“I know, Aiden.” She cups my cheek. “I love you, too.”
We sip cider in silence after that, smiling at each other like we share a wonderful secret.
I can feel the pleasure of the day settling into my bones—the clean ache of a long ride, the hum of being here with her. She sets her mug down and leans into me, her head against my shoulder. My arm goes around her automatically, my palm curving at her hip.
It’s not about rushing. Not tonight. It’s about the quiet—the fire, the cider, the sound of the wind moving through the trees. It’s about how she fits against me, how this feels like the safest place I’ve ever been.
“I’m glad we came here,” she murmurs.
“Me, too.” I press a kiss to her hair, tasting woodsmoke. “Feels like we left the world behind.”
“That was the point,” she admits.
I kiss her then, rough and hungry, and she moans into my mouth like she’s been waiting for it. Her tongue is sinful, tangling with mine, and I can taste the cider. Sweet and heady, just like her.
“Make love to me,” she whispers, her hands tangling in my hair.
I feel it, too, the ache to be inside her, to connect, to have that old intimacy.
I lift her like I used to, and she wraps her legs around my waist, like she used to.
She’s laughing, that wild, carefree laugh that makes my chest hurt, but it turns into a groan when I pin her beneath me on the bed.
I get rid of her sweater, and her tits spill out of her bra like they’re begging for my mouth. I oblige, sucking one nipple into my mouth while my fingers work the other, and she arches into me.
She moves her hand and cups me. Squeezes.
“Fuck me, baby,” she demands huskily, boldly.
A bomb detonates inside my head at her words. Suddenly, I am done with finesse. I need to be inside her.
I tear off her pajama pants, and she helps me because she’s just as hungry as me.
Her panties are drenched, and I groan at the sight, at the smell of her, sweet and addictive. I yank them off with my teeth, and she giggles, but it turns into a gasp when I bury my face between her legs.
“Aiden,” she moans, her hips thrusting up into my mouth.
I am relentless, my tongue fucking her like I’ll die if I stop. She tastes like heaven, like sin, and I can’t get enough.
Her hands pull my hair. I can feel her trembling, teetering on the edge. “Aiden, don’t stop, don’t stop—”
I don’t. I can’t.
I fuck her with my tongue until she comes, screaming my name. I’m drunk on how she moans her release. Drunk on her.
“I need you,” she gasps, her eyes wild.
I get rid of my clothes jerkily, and climb up her body, my cock throbbing. She pushes me, and I let her, so she’s on top of me, straddling me.
She sinks onto me, taking me inside her. Her tight, wet heat is perfect.
I groan, my hands gripping her hips as she starts to move.
“Fuck, Mia,” I growl, my hips bucking up to meet hers.
She throws her head back as she rides me, her tits bouncing with every thrust. She’s beautiful, fucking perfect, and I can’t take my eyes off her.
Her nails dig into my chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and I know she’s close. So am I.
“Come with me,” she begs, her voice breaking.
I fuck her harder, deeper, until she screams, her body clenching around me like a vice.
I come with her.
She rests her head on my chest and kisses a nipple. “Mine,” she says, loud and clear.
“Yours,” I agree.